Like This
by Maycen Dicksen
Summary: It shouldn't happen like this.
1. Default Chapter

TITLE: Like This AUTHOR: Maycen Dicksen RATING: PG FEEDBACK: Please. maycendicksen@aol.com SPOILERS: "The Telling" DISTRIBUTION: Fanfiction.net, SD-1. If you'd like to post it anywhere else, I'd be honored. Just drop me an e-mail. SUMMARY: There are so many things wrong with a situation that should be so right. WARNING: This isn't exactly a happy story. DISCLAIMER: Oh yeah. Almost forgot. I don't own the show or the characters. If I did, there'd be no RONG. Or Connie Vaughn. Or Mac Smith. NOTES: I know it's a little all over the place, but it's supposed to be that way. So, please forgive me.  
  
You don't know anything about anything for the moment, but you know that this is wrong. You shouldn't be here on this dingy bare mattress in the corner of a warehouse in God knows where. You know enough that this should be happening elsewhere.  
  
You don't know how you got this way. Well, you know how you got this way, it's just the details you don't know. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? There's no way to tell, so you remain indifferent. You resist the urge to scream, to spit in the face of the woman at your side, holding your hand and wiping the hair from your face. Instead, you simply lie there and let the pain run its course.  
  
Someone else should be here with you. This much you do know. You wonder in your heart if that someone is trying to find you. You'd find him yourself if only you weren't looking for you, too.  
  
You don't know if you're ready for this. You don't even know if you wanted this. All you know is that it's happening and there's nothing you can do about it. You're surprised the woman is being so benevolent today, as this certainly slows down your movement. But she's not angry. Today, she's singing something light and sweet. Something in Russian. Something that you understand. Something that you almost remember.  
  
She gruffly told the man to leave an hour ago, and he complied, for the first time. Since then, the pain has grown stronger and for some reason, you feel like you're going to die.  
  
She senses this. You suspect your face has betrayed your fear. Or perhaps it was your rattling limbs. She leans in close and whispers something else as she strokes your hair.  
  
"It shouldn't be like this," she says. "I'm sorry, sweetheart."  
  
You don't know where the term of endearment comes in, but it's nice and somewhat comforting, given the circumstances.  
  
The pain catches you off guard then, and you scream, your voice echoing throughout the empty room. Once you start, you can't stop. The screams become a chain of sobs, and the woman has to hold you down to keep you from curling up into the fetal position.  
  
The woman begins to sing again, seemingly to keep herself from crying. You think you hear her choke up on the second verse, but her brown hair hides her face.  
  
"Sing with me, sweetheart."  
  
And you do. And it feels strangely familiar, brings a familiar warmth, your voices echoing in the warehouse together. It takes your mind off the pain, momentarily.  
  
And then there's the new kind of pain. A ripping pain at your center. You scream like you've never screamed before (or at least that you know of) and then it's total blackness.  
  
You wake up to the smell of ammonia, a cap being broken under your nose. You're disoriented, although that's not exactly a new development. All you know is that the searing pain is gone, replaced by something more dull and permanent.  
  
The woman is by your side again, singing quietly. She wipes your hair away again and smiles warmly. You resist the urge to smile back at her.  
  
She lays something on the bed beside you. Something you can't help but smile at.  
  
The woman helps you sit up and this time you don't even notice the ripping. You pick up the bundle by your side, holding it close and staring at it. It- she-stares back at you, her forehead wrinkling with consternation.  
  
In that moment, you see someone familiar. Your brain doesn't know him, but your heart does. And you know that this is right, that this is a good thing, after all. In your heart, you know he's out there looking for you. You vow to look for him, too, because you've just found yourself.  
  
It shouldn't have happened like this. There should have been pink blankets and balloons and roses, and the man with the sandy blonde hair holding your hand. But none of that matters now as you feed her. The woman beside you leans down and kisses your forehead. She beams as she rubs your back, and stares at the tiny bundle.  
  
"Sing with me, sweetheart," she whispers, as she moves to tie your hair back from your face.  
  
And you do. 


	2. Appellation

TITLE: "Appellation" ("Like This" part two of ?) AUTHOR: Maycen Dicksen RATING: PG FEEDBACK: Please. maycendicksen@aol.com SPOILERS: "The Telling" DISTRIBUTION: Fanfiction.net, SD-1, Allies. If you'd like to post it anywhere else, I'd be honored. Just drop me an e-mail. SUMMARY: She doesn't have a name. WARNING: This isn't exactly a happy story. DISCLAIMER: Oh yeah. Almost forgot. I don't own the show or the characters. If I did, there'd be no RONG. Or Connie Vaughn. Or Mac Smith. NOTES: I really don't know what possessed me to continue this. Thank you all for your kind words regarding "Like This." I hope you enjoy it. Although, again.Kind of all over the place.  
  
She doesn't have a name.  
  
As odd as it is, that's the first thought assaulting your brain as you become aware of your surroundings. It's not, "Where the hell am I?" or "How did I get here?" or "Why do I smell like rotten noodles?" Those come later, sometime after "Ohmygod, Vaughn," "Dad," and "Francie's not Francie."  
  
But first, it's "She doesn't have a name." And the thought fills you with an unidentifiable and profound anguish.  
  
Who doesn't have a name, you don't exactly know. So, you push the thought to the back of your mind and try to make sense of what has happened. As an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency, that's what you're programmed to do. Agents are not programmed to curl up in a dirty alley and ponder their thoughts. You stand up, and despite the pounding headache, manage to make your way through the brightly lit streets of wherever. Wherever just happens to be Hong Kong, so you make the call-you're programmed to do it, of course--and take your place at the safe house and wait for your "contact" to arrive.  
  
The waiting is excruciating. Waiting on so much more than a ride back home.waiting on answers. You try to busy yourself by taking in the environment of the room. It amuses you how the lamp shade looks like a big hat. The print on the wall seems to be a reproduction (likely made in Hong Kong, or maybe Taiwan.), but-if your translation is correct-says something about honesty.  
  
Honesty.  
  
She doesn't have a name. And it makes you want to cry. And you do.  
  
It's likely the fatigue and confusion playing tricks on your mind. You don't know anyone without a name, especially a female. Even whoever Francie was had a name. Your mother has a name. You have a name.  
  
But she doesn't.  
  
The walls in there could use another coat of paint. You think that perhaps an antique white might be a little more soothing. You pass some time by examining the scratchy messages amateurly engraved into the arm rests and seats of your chair. There are probably twenty different languages represented, most of which you know. "God help me" in Russian. "Pigs" in Swedish. But the thing that stands out the most are the names. Anastasia. David. Malik. Mason.  
  
The names. Something she doesn't have. Names that likely mean a great deal to their inscriber. Perhaps her name would mean a great deal to you, too. If she had one, that is.  
  
You braid your hair. And then you unbraid it because it's lumpy. Why not? You have the time. You braid it again, and on the fifth try, you finally get it right and give up. You examine the scar on your abdomen, miraculously healed in a matter of hours or days.  
  
The door opens. Even as he walks in the room and holds you, even as he tells you what you never thought you'd hear, and even as he explains the foreign object on his finger, still one thought remains.  
  
She doesn't have a name.  
  
And oddly enough, that's the only thing that matters. 


	3. Spilled Milk

TITLE: "Spilled Milk" ("Like This" part three of ?)  
  
AUTHOR: Maycen Dicksen  
  
RATING: PG  
  
FEEDBACK: Please. maycendicksen@hotmail.com  
  
SPOILERS: "The Telling"  
  
DISTRIBUTION: Fanfiction.net, SD-1, Allies. If you'd like to post it anywhere else, I'd be honored. Just drop me an e-mail.  
  
SUMMARY: A fiberglass jungle and a sea of white.  
  
WARNING: This isn't exactly a happy story.  
  
DISCLAIMER: Oh yeah. Almost forgot. I don't own the show or the characters. If I did, there'd be no RONG. Or Connie Vaughn. Or Mac Smith.  
  
NOTES: I've lost my keys. Where are they? Again, this one is really all over the place.  
  
Didn't your mother ever tell you not to cry over spilled milk?  
  
Actually, no she didn't. Not that you remember at least. So perhaps that's why you're sitting in a puddle of watered-down white and broken glass. Sobbing.  
  
The man behind the glass occasionally sneaks a glance at you, likely wondering whether it's time to call for more meds or if this warrants a straight-jacket. The least he could do is call for a clean-up, but he averts his eyes and makes no move to do any such thing. What did you expect? This is the CIA, not the Ritz-Carlton, and the Feds never have been known for their customer service skills.  
  
After you've had a good cry-the most recent of several-you pick yourself up and walk around, careful to avoid the shards of glass. It doesn't matter anyway--you're physically numb. You'd never know the difference if one of those pieces were to lodge itself in your palm or in your bare foot. You wonder if it's a side-effect of the medication, but that train of thought disappears quickly, which is probably a side-effect of the medication. You sigh and try not to think about it.  
  
It's been three days-not that anyone here tells you anything-since you came back from Hong Kong. You visited briefly with your father, emotionally distant as ever. You think you saw Vaughn through the glass yesterday, but it could be your mind playing tricks on you. You can't really blame him after what happened the last time he made contact with you. You'd like to apologize for that, but for some reason you don't feel obligated. The doctors have come and, of course, Kendall and his cavalry have been here, but no headway has been made. That's probably why you're still stuck in here. You can say what you want about your mother, but she had to have the sanity of a saint to stay in here for months.  
  
Your mother.  
  
You wonder what she's doing, where she is, and how much of the blame for what's happened to you can be placed on her shoulders. Did she know where you were? Could she have put a stop to it? If she could, she didn't. Mothers are supposed to be there for their children.  
  
And that thought sends you another wave of tears. Another bout of misplaced guilt, you tell yourself.  
  
You tiptoe back through the puddle and curl up on the cot and try to sleep. You imagine that through the glass you resemble a tiger at the zoo, perched in her tree, trying to pretend that she's in a real jungle and not one made of fiberglass. You remember a couple of trips with your parents to the Santa Monica zoo-happy days-and the memories of animal crackers, red kool- aid, and prairie dogs are the last things you remember before you fall asleep.  
  
It's not a peaceful sleep. You dream of rings. And hat-shaped lamp shades. And meowing cats. And the smell of week-old rice.  
  
And the crying.  
  
You wake up, startled, the baby's voice-a girl?-ringing in your ears. And you start to sob again.  
  
That's when you realize that he's watching you. From inside the glass. Standing in the middle of the half-dried puddle, his arms folded across his chest and his forehead furrowed.  
  
And all you can do is stare. And hear the crying. And stare. And hear the crying.  
  
He moves slowly--as if expecting you to bite off his hand like the crocodile on that Discovery show--and takes a seat next to you. You turn and look at him.  
  
And she cries. Loudly. Desperately.  
  
"Sydney," he whispers.  
  
You answer by wiping your nose with your sleeve. Bad manners, but your mother never told you not to do that either.  
  
"What happened?" he asks.  
  
You want to explain that you were reaching for the glass of milk and knocked it off the tray instead. But as you search for the words, he looks you up and down, as if questioning why they'd put a glass anything in the room with a girl as crazy as you. His forehead is wrinkled again, just as you remembered it.  
  
And that's when she cries out to you again.  
  
And that's when you cry out again.  
  
"Sydney?" he whispers.  
  
"What?" you manage to answer.  
  
"What happened?"  
  
He looks down again. And so do you.  
  
The front of your shirt is soaked. And she's crying again.  
  
You're up and pacing. Wanting to escape your fiberglass jungle. You have somewhere to be.  
  
He stops you with two hands firmly on your shoulder, pulls you close, whispers in your hair. Desperate.  
  
"What happened?"  
  
You cling to him, a pang of realization hitting you in the gut. And although you don't know who she is, there's only one thing you know to say. You bury your face in his neck, crying without tears.  
  
"She doesn't have a name, Vaughn."  
  
His once-warm arms are now nothing but cold comfort. Because somewhere out there, there's a baby with no name crying.  
  
And you're not there to hold her. 


End file.
